


A Livid Sky on London

by Jackie Thomas (Jackie_Thomas)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Canon compliant despite appearances, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Reunion, The Blitz, Time Travel, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:15:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25916449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jackie_Thomas/pseuds/Jackie%20Thomas
Summary: He knew Aziraphale was in the city, he sensed him on his own return two months ago.  But he is close now; so close that when the door pushes open again, he hardly needs to look up to know it is him.  He must be the ‘AF’ Greta’s diary mentioned.  What has he got himself into now?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 32





	1. Tuesday 24 December 1940

Greta Kleinschmidt is a few minutes early for her appointment. Crowley watches her enter the saloon bar of the Blackfriars pub, buy a drink and find a seat. She ignores the frowns she gets as a lone woman and calmly observes the room. She doesn’t see Crowley at his corner table. He makes sure of it.

The street door opens and a crowd of men in overcoats bundle in bringing a rush of cold air with them. They cluster by the bar ordering pints, here for a last drink before heading home or to the shelters for Christmas Eve night. Greta dismisses them with a glance.

Crowley’s focus on Greta wavers. There is something else at the edge of his awareness demanding attention. It is the silver-gold presence of Aziraphale.

He knew Aziraphale was in the city, he sensed him on his own return two months ago. But he is close now; so close that when the door pushes open again, he hardly needs to look up to know it is him. He must be the ‘AF’ Greta’s diary mentioned. What has he got himself into now?

It has been seventy-nine years since the Argument. Seventy-nine years since he last saw Aziraphale. 

He has changed his appearance. This is remarkable for a being known to wear the same robe for a millennium. He is in a camel coat today, era-appropriate give or take a decade and looks dapper having given up his precious cravat for a bowtie, and top hat for a felt fedora.

Aziraphale senses Crowley too. He watches his expression soften when he sees him and then arrange itself into something more severe. Crowley gives a small but significant head shake. Aziraphale understands immediately and makes his way through the crowd to Greta’s table without acknowledging him further. The rules of engagement for the Arrangement are still in place then. Something warm and inconvenient flares in Crowley’s gut.

Aziraphale greets Greta and offers her a drink. Carefully not looking in Crowley’s direction, he returns to the bar to order her another port and lemon and a brandy for himself.

Crowley adjusts his hearing so he can listen to their conversation above the background noise. Aziraphale tells Greta he has made contact with the two _book dealers_. He has agreed to obtain the items they require and another meeting has been arranged for the new year. In her flawless home counties accent, she says she is delighted to hear it and assures him her people will be ready.

Business complete, she lets him talk on about his prophecy book collection and the rich and powerful who have expressed an interest in it lately. Crowley winces; the angel is a walking _loose lips, sink ships_ poster. Finally, the two shake hands, exchange season’s greetings and depart separately.

*~*

Aziraphale is waiting for Crowley near the railway station beside the ruins of a bombed-out office building.

“Dear fellow,” Aziraphale says.

“Angel.”

Aziraphale schools his features into something prim and less delighted so Crowley folds his own burst of joy away.

“I hope you’re not attempting to sabotage Captain Montgomery’s work,” Aziraphale says.

“That’s not Captain Montgomery.”

“Rose Montgomery,” he whispers. “British Military Intelligence.” 

“Her name is Greta Kleinschmidt, _German_ Military Intelligence. She’s _Abwehr N_ azi agent.” 

“Utter nonsense.”

“It’s true. Sorry.”

“Oh, I see it now; the two book men are working for you. That’s why you were there.”

“A bunch of murdering Nazis. Give me some credit.”

He can see how desperately Aziraphale doesn’t want to believe him. But the Arrangement is the Arrangement and he finally sighs.

“Oh, _bother._ ”

“What were you trying to do, anyway? Risking your books like that. If you want to trap spies, use your powers.”

“Not permitted, I’m afraid. I’ve instructions not to interfere. I’m to let the war run its course unhindered.”

“Don’t tell me, it’s the Plan? This is end times business, is it?”

“Only indirectly, I expect. So, I am doing my bit the human way. Or I thought I was. Why were you watching Rose?”

“Greta. A bit of independent Nazi annoying.”

“Independent? Have Hell taken a side?”

“Not that they’ve mentioned. They told me not to get involved. I’m to acquire souls and wait for orders. Greta and her gang’s souls are as good as any. As bad as any.”

“We’re on the same side, then?” Aziraphale says thoughtfully. “Informally.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.”

“No, that is true.”

“Can we – it’s been a long time - do you want to go for a drink or something?”

“I’m afraid I’m about to go on duty.”

“I daren’t ask.”

“If you must know, I’m volunteering as a fire watcher at St Paul’s Cathedral.”

Aziraphale changes his outfit with a wave into something resembling an air raid warden’s uniform. The blue overalls over a shirt and tie, tin hat in hand, make him seem breakable, as vulnerable as a human even.

“St Paul’s again,” Crowley sighs. “You and that blessed church.”

“I had a hand in its design, as you know,” Aziraphale says. “So I am rather attached to it.”

“I know you had a hand in its design. You didn’t talk about anything else for forty years. Sir Christopher this, Sir Christopher that. It’s all I ever heard.”

Aziraphale glares at him in a way he has missed so much he grins.

“Anyway, there’s no need to go tonight. There aren’t going to be any raids.”

“You can’t possibly know that.”

“Yes, I can. There’s an informal understanding. No raids over Christmas for three nights if the RAF returns the favour.”

“How have you found this out? I hope you haven’t been messing about with time travel again because -”

“I’m a typist for British Military Intelligence.” 

Aziraphale makes a spluttering noise as words apparently fail him. 

“Shut up. I work there. I pretend to work there. It comes down to whether you trust both sides to keep their word.”

“In that case, perhaps we can meet tomorrow. I rather don’t.”


	2. Wednesday 25 December 1940

Crowley takes a leisurely stroll to Soho in the early afternoon on Christmas day, white-ribboned box of mince pies in hand. It has been the quiet raid-free night promised and the icy air is clear and fresh. Blackout and austerity have left the London streets without festive lights or bold displays but each shop window he passes marks the season with a small tree, tissue paper decoration or silver bauble. Humans along the way wish him Happy Christmas and it hardly stings at all. He meets Aziraphale on Wardour Street and they walk together.

“Just getting back?” He asks.

“We finish at St Paul’s at dawn and then I volunteer at Barts Hospital most mornings.”

“I’ve never known you quite so involved in a war.”

“I was in France for the Great War,” he says. “But this one seems more personal somehow.”

“You’ve lived in this country a long time.”

“I do want to protect it, it’s true and that is something I am not permitted to do with my powers. For what I am sure are excellent reasons.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure myself.”

Aziraphale casts him an anxious glance and unlocks the bookshop door. He waves Crowley in ahead, almost crashing into him as he comes to a halt in the doorway.

“Crowley, what are you doing?” Aziraphale says bustling by.

A wave of sense memory almost knocks him off his feet. He would swear the smell of the shop hasn’t changed since he was here in the last century. The damp and creeping disquiet. The paper and dust, candle wax and coal fire, good wine and brandy. He takes in the bookcases, each crowded shelf, the mismatched furniture, the mementos of a long life. Crowley has held on to this place like a precious jewel. Like a refugee who keeps his treasures sewn into the lining of a coat, he has kept it safe in a secret pocket of his heart.

“Are you quite all right?” Aziraphale enquires, having returned from the cellar with a dusty bottle of champagne to find Crowley has progressed no further than the doorway.

“Yeah, ‘course. Strange to be back, that’s all.”

As he ventures further into the shop, he sees there have been changes, after all. A corner here, a book-lined corridor there.

A shaft of winter sunlight from above captures a column of swirling dust and his gaze follows it upwards.

“Aziraphale F Fell, have you added a floor?”

Aziraphale looks exactly as though he has been caught indulging a vice, “I need to house new acquisitions. It has been a marvellous era for literature.”

Crowley runs his finger along the spines of a collection of novels from the last three decades and picks one out.

“ _The Beautiful and Damned_. Someone wrote a book about us.”

“Ridiculous creature.”

“I hear he died. Scott Fitzgerald. Just a few days ago.”

“Oh, how terribly sad.”

“I met him, you know. In New York. A few times, in the jazz clubs. The man could drink. And that’s coming from me.”

“Is that where you’ve been?” Aziraphale asks. “America.”

“Yeah. Well, I was asleep for a while.”

“A while?”

“Forty years.”

“Good Heavens.”

“Normally you wake me.”

He had been going for jovial but it comes out plaintive. He attempts to cover himself by flicking through the book in his hand.

“I knew you were in London,” Aziraphale says, watching him. “But I had no idea you were – resting. I - well I - thought you were angry with me.”

He looks up, “I was, but not for eighty years.”

“Oh?”

“Of course not. And then Hastur kicked me awake and sent me to America. Should have written. Arrangement and all that. I didn’t know if you wanted to hear from me.”

Aziraphale sighs, “We are quite as bad as one another.”

“Is that champagne, angel? We should drink to that.”

Aziraphale beams and goes off to find glasses. When they both have drinks and have tapped their glasses together in a toast, Aziraphale gives the fireplace an expectant look. Flames rear up making a cosy blaze. Along the mantelpiece there is a row of Christmas cards, a disturbing number featuring a preening Archangel Gabriel.

“No Christmas dinner, Aziraphale?” He asks. 

“Not this year. It doesn’t seem right to take food from people who actually need it when everything is so scarce.”

“Who are you and where is my angel?”

“Oh hush.”

“So, you won’t be wanting mince pies?”

The sweet pastries are still warm from the baker’s oven despite having been bought yesterday. Aziraphale brightens at the sight, just as Crowley had known he would.

“What were you doing in the Great War?” He asks when Aziraphale has consumed the first mince pie with evident pleasure. “That was a nasty business.”

“Helping where I could.” His hand goes up in a precise little wave representing a miracle. “It’s partly why I’m not trusted with this one.”

“Was that you manifesting all over the battlefields?”

“Certainly not.”

“One of the others?”

“No that was pure fiction devised by desperate humans. They were entirely without Heavenly protection.”

“Except for you.”

“Rather ineffectually, I’m afraid. What were you doing in America?”

“Much the same as I do here. Downstairs have got hold of the idea that it’s the great power of the future. Probably is as well but this seems the place to be at the moment.”

“Yes, it does. In fact, I believe the future is turning on this very time and place. Do you sense that too?”

Crowley nods, “I think it’s why I came back.”

Nothing much has changed; one bottle is never enough and they soon finish a second. But later Aziraphale sobers up and goes to make a flask of tea to get him through his night patrolling the cold corridors of St Paul’s. While he is pottering about the kitchenette, a black-trimmed, malodourous scroll appears in Crowley’s hand. He unrolls his latest orders from Hell.

Mood ruined, he crushes the paper and throws it into the fire.

“Assignment?” Aziraphale enquires. He has witnessed the scene but can’t have read the scroll. 

“Nothing important,” he tells him. “Just a bit of chaos and destruction. Nothing the humans haven’t already got well in hand.”


	3. Thursday 26 December 1940

Crowley falls asleep, sprawled across the bookshop sofa. He is woken by Aziraphale returning from his watch and hospital duties.

“It’s been another quiet night,” he says, seemingly unperturbed at finding Crowley still in his shop.

He sits up, scrubbing his hands across his face, “Very festive of them not to murder anyone for Christmas.”

He is cold because the fire has died away and he has a careless hangover from failing to sober up before he dozed off. On the other hand, Aziraphale has made tea. He watches him pour into Japanese patterned china he is sure he drank from the last time he was here in 1861. He hands him a cup and sits back in his desk chair to sip his own.

“Are you working today?” Aziraphale asks.

“Doing my own stuff.”

“Typing?”

“I prefer to think of it as surveillance, but yes.”

“Will you be seeing Captain Montgomery?”

“She’s not Captain Montgomery. But that’s the idea. Shall I send her your regards?”

“Perhaps not. I’ll have to find a way to put her off.”

“Leave her to me. Don’t give her another thought.”

“Oh, well, thank you.”

Crowley is distracted then by something he can’t quite believe he is seeing. 

“Angel. You have a _telephone_.”

He hadn’t noticed this astounding addition to the bookshop clutter yesterday because it had been concealed under a knitted tea cosy. The cosy is now on the teapot and Aziraphale’s secret is revealed.

“Beastly contraption,” Aziraphale says. “It’s not bad enough humans barging in and demanding books, now they think they can telephone and do it.”

“Why have you got it, then?”

“In case of emergencies,” Aziraphale says miserably. 

“Get a lot of antiquarian book emergencies, do you?”

“War emergencies, Crowley. Captain Montgomery suggested I obtain one.” Aziraphale’s expression crumbles as he remembers. “Oh, that wretched woman, I should have known.”

Crowley sees Aziraphale will forever associate telephones with Nazis. He’ll have to work on that.

“You could always give St Paul’s your number. Then you can hotfoot it there in an actual emergency.”

“Hotfoot? Yes, I suppose.”

“And can I have your number?” He asks. “Because of the - the Arrangement.”

Aziraphale considers this and plucks a card from his desk drawer. It is gold embossed and somewhere between a business card and a visiting card. Two can play at that game. He retrieves his own card from his wallet.

“That’s New York.” He scribbles the number for his London flat. “That’s Lambeth.”

They exchange cards and Aziraphale studies his.

“What is a _business consultant_ precisely?”

He grins, “Whatever you want it to be, baby.”

“And – oh – A J?”

“Anthony. You need more than one name these days.”

“Anthony,” he repeats, trying it out, “Anthony J Crowley.”

“You don’t like it?”

“I do like it. I need to get used to it, that’s all. What does the J stand for?”

“Just a J.”

“Do I call you -?”

“Crowley’s good.”

They each tuck away their cards in wallets and pockets. They have become careless, he thinks as he does it. They shouldn’t carry evidence of each other, even something as insignificant as a card with a number on. Neither should he have stayed here overnight. An angel’s house, alone and unconscious of threats, in a place where other less amenable representatives of his kind might appear.

How have they so quickly lost the cautious habits developed over thousands of years? Perhaps it is the proximity of End Times, which can only be a few decades away now. Or perhaps it is this war, which is the same but somehow different from all the others. Wars make humans reckless, he has seen it countless times. They accustom themselves to the different necessities and freedoms of a world in upheaval and disregard the old ways. They decide the rules no longer apply. Sometimes such humans ‘come a cropper’.

He is about to say something, suggest they swap their cards back and commit the numbers to memory when he notices Aziraphale looking at him. The look, over his teacup, seems an attempt to convey something. Perhaps it is his aching head, and mouth like the bottom of a birdcage, but he can’t fathom it.

“What?” He demands.

And Aziraphale reaches the short distance between them and brushes his hand through Crowley’s hair. The hand lingers a moment and withdraws. 

The planet comes to an abrupt emergency stop, along with Crowley’s capacity for rational thought. 

“Your hair,” says Aziraphale. “Um, sticking up. From the sofa.”

The idea he had, something about telephone numbers, something about carelessness, evaporates and he stares, too surprised to respond. Aziraphale’s ears go pink and he wraps the wandering hand around his cup.

“I have to go,” Crowley says, attempting to appear casual while gulping down tea.

“Of course,” says Aziraphale.

“Got to – work - no rest for the uh…”

Crowley snaps his fingers and is transformed into Judith, the British Military Intelligence employee, hair set in a fashionable wave, face already made up in lipstick and powder, nails manicured and polished. Aziraphale blinks, dazed at the transformation.

“See you soon, angel.”

“Er, yes, dear fellow, er dear girl.”

Aziraphale watches Judith leave, doing her best not to wobble as she hurries away on high heels.

*~*

The Boxing Day bank holiday has been cancelled for Londoners involved in war work and Crowley finds the Victoria office as busy as any normal Thursday.

Judith won’t be working here much longer. The powers she has to expend to ensure her poor attendance and abysmal typing skills go unnoticed risk drawing the sort of attention from Hell that she cannot afford.

Greta comes into the office shortly after her, moving smoothly through the communal areas where most of the women work and disappearing into the wood panelled meeting rooms where top brass gather. That she has obtained access beyond her rank can only mean an ally in the highest of places. Crowley’s next task is to find out who that is. In the meantime, Kleinschmidt, Glozier and Harmony are his targets.

Greta attends briefings for most of the afternoon and comes away with information that, if it were to fall into the wrong hands, would set back, if not derail British war strategy. Fortunately, by the time she leaves the office she has forgotten most of it.

Judith transforms back into Anthony and follows Greta. She takes a tram and meets her two colleagues at a corner house in Oxford Street. Crowley sits unseen at the next table.

The three are the core of the London cell. Tricking unsuspecting angels into acquiring prophecy books for the Fuhrer is one of their more harmless activities. It is also the one they will regret most. Greta passes on her gratifyingly wrong information and Mr Glozier shares details of a meeting of his own taking place tomorrow. Crowley notes the time and place and takes his leave.

*~*

The sky is clear and starlit tonight. Even with dark glasses, he can see well enough to navigate the ghost city the blackout has made. A row of Blitzed buildings forms a shadow mountain range and a silvery whale of a barrage balloon floats peacefully beyond. Humans silently queue for one of the underground shelters. Men smoke while they wait and women clutch babies and blankets.

It would be a good night for the Luftwaffe to break the ceasefire, but he senses no immediate threat. Tomorrow it will be business as usual but tonight all is quiet.

He walks emptying streets through Holborn to St Paul’s Cathedral and climbs the rickety stairs of a nearby building destabilised by a bomb. It is as near as he can get to the cathedral without risking a roasting from the consecration. Its holiness bleeds out into the street; the long indiscriminate finger of Her vengeful wrath.

From the top floor he has an unobstructed view. The cathedral is almost untouched by this war. Its white Portland stone has an ancient, immutable solidity. It wants you to believe its walls will never crumble, that bombs will simply bounce off its dome. Crowley can see scarring from recent raids even in this poor light, but the illusion holds for now.

This is Aziraphale’s place. His blessings were woven into its walls centuries ago. Crowley can sense their gentle power even now. Aziraphale had whispered in Wren’s ear after the Great Fire. He had encouraged his daydreams of the Renaissance, of Rome and Florence, of St Peter’s Basilica and the new, bold architecture. He had seen its stone arrive from the quarry, kept watch over the builders and artisans. And London, city of sharp edges and spires had got its giant dome, a curl of sensuality at its heart.

Crowley sees the fire watchers going about their duties. Here is Aziraphale now, in his uniform, patrolling the perimeter of the building. He is with a colleague, another man too old for conscription who holds a clipboard. They make checks and tick their lists. Efficient and organised; wars have been won on less.

Aziraphale stops suddenly because he senses Crowley. He doesn’t turn, just moves on. They are on the same side in this war, after all. He doesn’t know Hell has commanded Crowley to see St Paul’s Cathedral destroyed. That his orders are to make sure it doesn’t survive into the new year.

He could easily do it. There are no bombs tonight but there will be soon. It would be a small matter to divert a few planes, to bring them here, to encourage the idea, which of course they’ve already had, that this cathedral doesn’t have to be a mere navigation point for bombers, this can be the target itself. A bigger hit than even Coventry Cathedral last month. Destroy this place and destroy the morale of the British in a way bombing their factories and docks will not.

He won’t do it. It is a big church with a vicious sting and he wouldn’t normally care if it stood or fell. But this is Aziraphale’s place, he loves it, and somehow this means Crowley can’t.

His mind returns to the bookshop and Aziraphale’s hand in his hair. What was he thinking? An angel shouldn’t touch a demon in gentleness. In all their long acquaintance they’ve avoided touch. No matter how drunk, or how extreme the circumstances, they’ve kept their distance. Because _anyone_ could be watching. Careless. They were careless. And it’s not enough. He needs more. He watches Aziraphale pacing back into view, his hands clasped behind his back. Crowley would like to coax those hands free to wander back into his hair, to wander wherever they wished, to take whatever they needed and he would push his fingers through cloud white hair and take what he needed too.


	4. Friday 27 December 1940

It is late Friday afternoon and daylight is already fading when Crowley reaches Whitehall. He sees Mr Glozier’s dark suited silhouette using the blackout for cover as he makes his way to an alleyway not far from the Admiralty building. He doesn’t wait long before a man in naval uniform arrives.

Crowley, unseen at the other end of the alleyway, can sense the man’s fear. Human minds are almost impossible to read. They are too chaotic, too full of shouting emotions and wrong memories. But a speculative probe of the surface of his thoughts comes up with a photograph. It is of him with a male lover. They are both young, only in their twenties, making the mistake of letting their guard down for a moment. Careless.

“Have you brought everything?” Glozier asks.

“No,” the young man replies.

“I beg your pardon.”

He takes a manila envelope from his pocket, “I won’t commit treason but here is all the money I have.”

Glozier stares at the envelope, “This is not what you were instructed to do. You are required to provide documents.”

“Don’t contact me again,” the man’s voice trembles but he is defiant. “You can do as you like, I won’t see you again.”

“And so you will go to prison. What of your gentleman friend? You are content for him to follow you there?”

“We’ve talked about it and we will face the consequences.”

“And your families? Their reputations ruined?” The young man does not reply and Glozier sighs, “This is most unfortunate.”

“We mean it.”

“I’m sure you do. But if this is the case, you are no longer of use to me.”

The young man starts running the moment Glozier’s hand reaches into his jacket for a handgun, but in the narrow alleyway, he can’t miss. Crowley nods and the gun turns in Glozier’s hand. It goes into his own mouth and he fires. The bullet takes off the back of his head. The young man turns and stares. Then, getting his wits about him, scrambles frantically away.

Crowley goes straight to the office in Victoria and enters as Judith. She waits until Greta visits the ladies’ and follows her in. She is applying lipstick at the mirror when Greta is washing her hands. Judith breathlessly tells her that a body has been found near the Admiralty and they think he was a German spy.

Greta appears uninterested in the news, only cautioning Judith to be more discreet, but she goes immediately to collect her coat and leave the building. Judith transforms again and follows her to a telegraph office. Greta sends a telegram and then hails a taxi. Crowley hails his own and follows her to a quiet sheltered area near the back of a bus garage in Chelsea. It is one of the cell’s emergency meeting places.

Greta waits for Mr Harmony. She paces and smokes and looks at her watch. She doesn’t know Harmony is stuck in a taxi behind a broken-down lorry. The lorry’s engine unexpectedly recovers at the same time as the air raid sirens start.

Crowley raises a beckoning hand at the sound of approaching aircraft. A plane that had been destined to turn Victoria Railway Station to dust is diverted to Chelsea.

When Mr Harmony finally arrives, Crowley lets himself be seen, “Good evening,” he says. “Miss Kleinschmidt, Mr Harmony.”

“Anthony J Crowley,” Mr Harmony says. “How interesting.”

“My condolences,” Crowley says. “For Mr Glozier. If it’s any consolation, he didn’t suffer. He’s suffering now, obviously.”

“You were responsible?” Greta asks, frowning, because she has never seen this man before but he looks familiar.

“I was. However, I’m prepared to spare the two of you.”

“That is very generous,” Harmony says reaching predictably for a gun. “It is a pity we cannot return the favour.” 

“I’m giving you both twenty-four hours to leave the country,” Crowley continues. “I don’t care how you manage it, but you must leave.”

Crowley ignores the gun and walks toward them.

“Can you hear that noise? It’s a German bomber, a _Heinkel_ I’d say, but it’s one of yours so you’ll know better. It’s coming to destroy this bus garage. I think you should get out of here extremely quickly.”

Greta glances up at the hole in the sky made by a circling searchlight and starts to move toward the street. Harmony edges backwards with her but pauses to raise his weapon and fire at Crowley. His hand jerks and the bullet hits the wall, just missing Greta.

“You idiot,” she says. “Come on.”

Harmony looks confused and stares at his hand. He raises the gun again.

“That won’t work,” Crowley tells him and removes his glasses so they get a look at his eyes. Harmony breathes out a German curse but doesn’t lower the weapon. Greta makes an ‘oh’ sound and grabs Harmony’s arm to pull him away.

A flare brightens the sky. The flares come before the bombs.

“Miss Kleinschmidt you don’t have to wait for him. Go on, save your life.”

A plane overhead releases its load with a monstrous noise. Greta tries to stumble away with Harmony but he attempts one last shot at Crowley. This time he turns the gun on himself and goes the same way as Glozier. Greta drops his arm and runs with more serious intent. She is too late. The building takes a hit, the wall collapses and her soul follows Harmony’s out of the rubble.

Crowley snaps his fingers and takes himself back to his flat, narrowly avoiding discorporation.

He reaches for the nearest bottle, downs a glass and pours another, flinging himself on to his throne. Three souls for Satan. Dead before they could mend their ways. A good day’s work for any demon. More to the point, he has shut down a Nazi operation in London and saved unknown numbers of lives. Why isn’t he happier?

He couldn’t warn Glozier but the other two had been given a chance to save themselves. It’s hardly his fault they didn’t listen. He tries really hard to avoid taking human lives. It’s too obvious. Too demonic. It lacks finesse. But he _isn’t_ sorry, and he isn’t going to torture himself over Nazi scum who got what they deserved. 

They were the worst sort of human; vicious and ruthless with heads full of fascistic nonsense. Aziraphale wouldn’t have walked out of _their_ trap with his human body intact. They would have shown no mercy when, as far as they knew, he was a harmless bookseller in a bowtie. That meant they didn’t deserve any mercy either.

A small voice reminds him that, before time, someone had made the same assessment of him. _Someone_.


	5. Saturday 28 December 1940

Aziraphale finds him.

At some point in the night, two and a half bottles in, he had curled up on the stone floor and passed out. Aziraphale prods him awake and sits him up.

“Oh, Satan,” he says as the room spins and his insides lurch between drunk and hungover.

“Sober up, dear fellow. You’ll feel better.”

The daylight is harsh, he is freezing and all that angelic warmth is going to waste. He closes his eyes and leans into the heat. Aziraphale pats him consolingly and tuts.

He strokes Crowley’s hair back and presses two fingers into his forehead. He feels the alcohol retreating from his system and the world settling back into awful clarity. 

“Could’ve warned me,” he grumbles.

“Has something happened?” Aziraphale asks.

“Nope,” he says.

“Why have you done this?”

Aziraphale knows that when Crowley drinks alone, joylessly and to excess, it is generally for a reason. Over the centuries, he has picked him up and hauled him home from a Syrian ditch, a Florentine alleyway and a handful of other dismal locations.

“Something’s upset you.”

Oh, it’s a generous interpretation, “I’ve done the upsetting, angel, you don’t have to be kind.”

He wonders how the three Nazis he sent to Hell are faring and abruptly dismisses them.

“What are you doing here, anyway?”

“Oh, well, I - I brought you something.”

He is intrigued by the stammer, by the anxious flutter of Aziraphale’s fingers.

“Yeah? Is it alcohol? Because I could do with restocking.”

“It most certainly is not drinkable.”

Aziraphale gets to his feet, brushes down his jacket and offers his hand, “It’s in the kitchen, when you’ve composed yourself.”

“I’m composed.”

“Yes, I can see. You’re a symphony.”

He follows Aziraphale into the next room where the Thermos flask he takes to St Paul’s is on the kitchen table, carefully placed at the centre.

“Tea?”

“Holy water,” Aziraphale says.

He looks up, “What?”

“If you still want it.”

He circles the table as cautiously as if there were a wild animal crouching on it.

“The real thing?” He already knows it is; his demon senses are jangling a proximity warning. He stands back to calm them. “After everything you said.”

“I’ve thought a lot about our discussion,” Aziraphale says. “I now understand what you were trying to tell me. I see that you might need holy water not to destroy yourself but to protect yourself. Because I have put you at risk.”

“You?”

“Of course. I’m doing it now, just by standing here.”

“We’ve managed so far.”

“But walls, as you so rightly pointed out, have ears.”

Aziraphale has committed every syllable of the Argument to memory, just as he has.

“You were at St Paul’s,” Aziraphale goes on. “Were you making a plan to obtain some yourself? I can’t have you endangering yourself like that.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“No, well, let’s not speak of it. Can I put this somewhere secure?”

Together they lock the flask in Crowley’s safe and, as an afterthought, store gloves with it so if the time comes, he can pick it up without touching it directly.

“Please, I beg of you,” Aziraphale says. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

“That’s not why I want it, I told you.”

“But you have dark moods. If one day you felt that way, would you come to me?”

Crowley doesn’t know the answer to this, so he keeps quiet and Aziraphale frowns at his silence.

“I want very much for you to be safe,” Aziraphale says. “Even if I don’t see you, knowing you are in the world makes being in the world possible.”

He considers how he should understand these words, balances them against the weight of wishful thinking, against the intensity of Aziraphale’s gaze.

“I didn’t know,” he says softly.

“I _missed_ you,” Aziraphale says and then presses his lips together as though sealing them against the escape of more forbidden sentiment.

“Aziraphale.”

“Yes?”

“Will you kiss me?”

It is not the holy water.

It is the millennia of lonely wandering, the constant lookout for one bright presence, the seventy-nine years of silence, that shy and lovely declaration.

Aziraphale lays his hand on his chest where his human heart beats.

“Oh, Crowley,” he says. “Is that what you want? Truly.”

“Do you doubt it?”

“I thought you – I touched your hair and you ran away.”

“You took me by surprise.”

“You changed sex and ran away.”

He takes Aziraphale’s hand and brings him closer, “If you kiss me now, I won’t run away. Or change sex. Unless you want me to. Angel?”

Aziraphale takes Crowley’s face in his hands, “Don’t go, don’t change. How perfect you are, how beautiful you are.”

There is no war today, there is no peace either. No Hell, no Heaven, the world itself disappears. Crowley is oblivious to the pale winter sun travelling across the sky, to the passage of the day, to the fall of darkness.

He knows only Aziraphale’s lips, the feel of him under his fingertips, the taste of him, the heat of his body as it tangles among the sheets with his own, the sounds he makes when he gains release. If he never has this again, he will always have these touches and soft noises, he will know what it is to have this angel in his demon arms. This, at least, is what he believes.

When the sirens sound, Aziraphale raises his hand to add his protection wards to Crowley’s own. The light and darkness of their powers unite, he can feel their writhing dance as the planes pass overhead and sow the river with incendiaries.

But sirens signal hazard, and Crowley is abruptly conscious of the danger he has put them in by asking for this.

“What is it?” Aziraphale asks, sensing his mood shift.

“If my side or your side -. Is this too much, too careless?”

“Not careless, never that.”

“Brave, angel. If anything happened to you.”

“And I am risking you, after everything I said.” He softly kisses Crowley. “Should I leave?”

“No,” he says. “Please don’t.”

Aziraphale is silent for a time, “Would you want to um, what a question, meet again, to continue to – I mean –“

“Yes, angel, with all that I am, I would.”

“Oh. Then, my love. A new Arrangement is called for.”

“Yes, yes,” Crowley says falling on the idea. “A new Arrangement. We’ll find ways to do this safely.”

“Even if we can rarely meet, to know I don’t always have to be without you.”

“Makes being in the world possible.”


	6. Monday 30 December 1940

Crowley wakes to the familiar sound of air raid sirens from across the river. His bed is disappointingly empty. Aziraphale missed one night at St Paul’s to stay with him, but on Sunday evening left for his shift.

He has promised to return, and Crowley is meditating peacefully on where to take him for lunch when he begins to notice a smell infiltrating from the street. It is the stink of a furnace; metallic, filthy, worse than this city’s smoggiest days.

He notices then that the light nudging him awake has a strange quality to it; bright but without the clarity of winter sunshine. He reaches for his watch on the bedside table. It is only three o’clock. In an English December there should be no light at all at this time.

He gets up and goes to the window. At first all he can see is billowing smoke. He disperses it with a wave to reveal the Houses of Parliament, unharmed across the river and, beyond that, the source of the peculiar light. The sky has turned a gaudy fever-red and orange colour. _Fuck._

He remembers the last time London’s sky was this bright at night. It was three hundred years ago and he was standing on the Southwark riverbank, Aziraphale by his side, watching Old St Paul’s burn in the Great Fire.

The fiery sky he is looking at now is also brightest to the east, over the City and Aziraphale’s St Paul’s. Because of course it is. Hell needn’t get involved; it was only ever a matter of time before the place was too much for the bombers to resist.

He takes the Bentley but it is slow going on the roads. Somewhere ahead rubble is being cleared and civil defence vehicles are backed up in exasperated jams. On Waterloo Bridge, he parks on the pavement and abandons the car altogether. He stops to look out over the river and _fuck, fuck, fuck_.

The City of London is on fire. The City _is_ fire. There is a great wall of flame engulfing the patch of land humans first called London. He should be able to see the dome of St Paul’s from here but he can’t. It isn’t the smoke; the dome has gone.

He runs part of the way, miracles himself the rest. The bombers are still pummelling the area with high explosives. Incendiary showers are raining down; flaring bright like falling angels, hissing like serpents. An unnatural wind rages, stoking the firestorm. Flames leap from building to building, across narrow alleyways, obliterating warehouse and office, shop and church. The fire brigade is at St Paul’s but it is too late. It was too late hours ago.

It is _gone_. The cathedral is gone. Its dome has collapsed and the rest of the building; its towers, transepts and porticos are either fallen or aflame. The pride of Sir Christopher Wren who had declared he built for eternity, is destroyed. The new St Paul’s is following the old one into oblivion.

Is Aziraphale caught in this inferno, is he under the wreckage, discorporated, lost to Earth, lost to this demon? No, Crowley would know. He closes his eyes and reaches for him. He forces himself to focus, to set aside the sensations crowding in on him, the despair and fear of the humans on the ground, the bubbling hysteria of those above. When he silences all that, he finds him. He stumbles toward the point of ethereal light until he is, at last, in sight.

Aziraphale is crouching over a fallen human; an older man, another fire watcher. He is holding his hand and speaking quietly, comforting him in his final moments. He looks up as he becomes aware of Crowley. He raises his hand, palm out, and Crowley is flung backward.

“Stay away!”

Forgetting to conceal his strength, Aziraphale lifts the body of his comrade, takes it to where the ambulance service is stationed and lays him down with other dead. He speaks briefly to an ambulance driver and she writes down details. Then he goes to Crowley.

He is sitting where he landed against the wall of another wrecked building. He quickly understood why Aziraphale shoved him away. For all it resembles Hell, this is no place for a demon. The cathedral walls are still crumbling and debris is buffeting about on the wind. Swirling embers and tiny glowing particles are carried on the air. All of it retains the power of its consecration, all of it is a weapon against him. He is away from the worst of it now but specks still fly into his face and hair, slip under his collar and cuffs, each with a burning sizzle as it settles on his skin. His feet ache with a more serious blistering because he got too close. He is not sure what he touched or gripped but the palms of his hands are bubbling up too.

Aziraphale drops to his knees in front of him. He is wild eyed and wild haired where his tin helmet has gone askew.

“They let this happen,” he cries. “They always let it happen. What good are they? What good are we?”

“Shut up.” Crowley clasps his shoulders and speaks urgently. “Stop it.”

“They don’t care. She doesn’t care.”

He holds him against his shoulder to comfort him, to stop his dangerous questions.

“Darling, be quiet,” he murmurs, stronger and steadier than he feels.

This finally silences Aziraphale and after a moment of sobbing breaths he separates himself from Crowley, tearstained but calm. He glances down at his filthy, bloodstained overalls and they transform into his suit, camel coat and hat. Oddly, he seems more the guardian in these soft bookseller’s clothes than he did in uniform.

He gives Crowley a critical look, “What were you thinking, storming onto consecrated ground like that? Can you walk?” 

“Think so.”

When Aziraphale gets them standing, the pain from his feet is so intense he can’t help the gasp that escapes him.

“Never mind,” Aziraphale says and snaps them both into Crowley’s flat.

“You’d better think up a good explanation for that miracle,” Crowley says against a stab of pain.

“As if they read my reports.”

Aziraphale closes all the blinds to shut out, as far as possible, the unearthly glow of the conflagration across the river and switches on lamps. He turns to Crowley, standing helplessly in the middle of the room, reluctant to take a step.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley says. “About your cathedral. I know what it meant to you.”

Aziraphale acknowledges this with a nod and looks to him, “I can’t heal you,” he says. “I’d make it worse. Can you do anything for yourself?”

“No, I’ve tried. It’s fine, it’ll heal by itself in a day or two.”

“You must bathe, get all the shards off you. The human way.”

“Yes. Right.”

Aziraphale comes to his side, “May I help?” He silences Crowley’s protests. “Please.”

Crowley drapes his arm across Aziraphale’s shoulders and Aziraphale loops his around his waist, taking most of his weight during the painful shuffle to the bathroom.

“I can manage from here,” he says as the bath fills.

“Let me,” Aziraphale says.

Although he can never locate it, he keeps this memory when almost everything else has been lost. An angel’s hands; gentle, careful, thorough, in his hair and on this human body. Holy torture washed away by most beloved hands.

He gives in and lets Aziraphale carry him in his arms to bed to apply ointment to the worst of the burns, and bandage his feet and hands. He murmurs the sweetest of words as he works, covers him with sheets and blankets and somewhere along the way Crowley falls peacefully asleep.


	7. Wednesday 1 January 1941

Aziraphale is not there when Crowley wakes up. He is not sure what day it is, but light is coming in through the window blinds. It is true daylight this time, and his watch tells him it is mid-morning. He kicks back the covers to examine his hands and feet. The bandages are clean; Aziraphale must have changed them at least once while he slept. The thought does complicated things to his heart.

He must have been asleep for a couple of days because when he snaps the dressings away, he finds the burns completely healed on his feet and almost clear on his hands.

A faint sulphurous odour from the hallway announces a delivery from Hell. He gets up to find out what it is. At first, he can see nothing amiss. There is no scroll, no Hell-crafted object. It would be something gold and flashy if he were in favour, something vile and sticky if Duke Hastur were bored.

Then he notices the new commendation. It has appeared framed on the wall with the others. He has quite a collection now. They populate the whole of the hallway because he daren’t take them down. Mostly they commend him for horrendous things humans have done. One, pleasingly, is for something that was Heaven’s work. He hardly has any for his genuine achievements. Which they _wilfully_ refuse to comprehend. This new commendation is for the destruction of St Paul’s Cathedral.

The certificate is near the hook Aziraphale hung his coat and hat on when he came in. It is giving off an unmistakeable ‘fresh from Hell’ stink, staining the air around it. If it arrived before Aziraphale left, he certainly saw it. He probably now believes Crowley destroyed his beautiful church and then let him tend his wounds.

*~*

Outside, gritty dust has settled on the pavements and walls. There is still a corrosive smell in the air but at least it is clear again. He buys a newspaper from a boy who bids him a surprised Happy New Year when he absently overpays by a day’s wages. It is the first day of 1941.

He reads about what they are already calling, ‘the second Fire of London’. Numbers of dead and wounded are reported, as are the names of notable bombed buildings. St Paul’s is not the only Wren church to have gone; ten others went too. The Bank of England has burnt down, so has the Old Bailey, Mansion House and Guildhall. So have dozens of streets and squares of uncounted other buildings old and new.

Aziraphale has gravitated back to St Paul’s; Crowley can sense him there as a new minted coin in the dirt. He takes the Bentley, which is waiting for him unnoticed on Waterloo Bridge, and drives to the City.

The area is busy today. People are picking through the wreckage of their businesses looking for anything that might have escaped damage. Men in ties and women in blouses sift through debris, hunting for their order books and strong boxes of valuables. Chairmen’s portraits, machine parts, filing cabinets and bolts of dress fabric pile up on the pavement.

It was the same after the first fire, it is the same after any disaster. No sooner have they stamped out the embers do they start rebuilding. They are bees reconstructing their hive, ants tunnelling a new labyrinth. They are still numb with shock; they hardly know what they are doing, but it is how they go on.

Crowley parks the Bentley near the ruins of the cathedral. A crowd has gathered, Aziraphale among them. Some of them may have business in the area but many others have made the journey just to see. Some are crying freely. 

It isn’t that it was old, it isn’t that it was a temple to any particular god. It isn’t even that it was the tallest, most beautiful thing around. The point is, it was theirs; it was London’s, it was its beating heart and they stuck a knife in when they bombed it.

And something else. If the newspaper is to be believed, the disaster has discouraged the Americans. They are reluctant to get involved in this war but if they don’t, the Nazis will win. Now with St Paul’s gone and the country’s business and finance district in ashes they are even less sure it is worth risking their people, their resources, their economy. No wonder Hell wanted this. They don’t much care which side wins but they relish chaos. This is where the future turns left or right and now the future is ruined too.

He watches Aziraphale moving quietly through the crowd. Some of the people he passes start to feel better. Their eyes close, their thoughts become rosier, something hopeful occurs to them. When the gathering starts to become too large for safety, Aziraphale sends them on their way with a blessing. Then he goes to the Bentley and gets in.

“Soho?” Crowley asks.

“Yes, please,” he says folding his hands in his lap.

They drive in silence through bleak, broken streets, navigating to avoid unexpectedly blocked roads and streets awash from burst water mains. It is a relief to get into the West End where life continues in a more familiar way. Crowley parks outside the shop and Aziraphale gets out.

“Come in,” he says when Crowley doesn’t move.

“I didn’t do it,” he says. “Whatever you saw. It wasn’t me.”

“I am aware of that,” Aziraphale replies. “I believe I know what you are capable of after all these years.”

Aziraphale doesn’t know what Crowley is capable of, not really. But he is grateful for the absolution so unexpectedly and easily granted. He follows him into the shop where the angel closes the door and kisses him.

Aziraphale retrieves an already opened burgundy from the kitchenette. He sits beside Crowley on the sofa and pours them each a glass. Aziraphale drinks with determination despite the early hour. Crowley keeps a slower pace. He takes Aziraphale’s free hand and holds it firmly in his lap.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale says looking down at their hands. “For coming to find me on Sunday night. You were a great comfort and I am sorry for the fuss I made.”

“What fuss? What are you talking about?”

Aziraphale turns Crowley’s hand up examining the fading burn marks, stroking his thumb along the palm, resisting the impulse to heal.

“Three hundred humans died in that raid and I was weeping over a building. I did nothing to help those who were in desperate need.”

“You helped, I saw you. Anyway, it wasn’t just a building; the place was special. And now it’s gone, everything is worse.”

“Yes, I believe you’re right.”

When the bottle has finished, Aziraphale goes down to the cellar to hunt down another of the same. While he is gone, Crowley gets up and prowls. The bookshop has always been a comforting place. Its cluttered surfaces and fascinating corners muffle insistent voices, hinder intrusive thought. It is usually a good place to hide, to evade responsibilities. Not today.

He finds a scrolled memo from Heaven on the desk and unrolls it. In gothic calligraphy, lacking the blots and scratches of a letter from Hell, he reads a summons to appear before the archangels. Aziraphale is to supply a _detailed_ explanation for a transportation miracle involving a demon.

The scroll was balancing on a stack of newspapers. Aziraphale has a paper delivered daily, mainly for the book reviews. The one on top of the heap catches Crowley’s eye. It is from Sunday, the day they spent in bed, before the night the sky caught fire.

The paper, a closely printed broadsheet, is folded open at the second page and twice folded again. The article that appears at the centre of the quartered page is about the death in a raid of a woman Military Intelligence officer. There are no mentions of apparent suicides of possible German spies but perhaps Aziraphale really does know what he is capable of.

He trails a finger along the dust on a letter wrack. The dust of a smashed cathedral is drifting across the city today. It will disperse across the country, across Europe, choking the earth and muddying the sea, falling down into the caverns of Hell and rising up to Heaven until nowhere in creation is left unsullied. 

Crowley can fix this. He knows he can. If he doesn’t, he’s a coward. He picks up Aziraphale’s fountain pen. 

“See you soon, angel,” he whispers.


	8. Tuesday 24 December 1940

Crowley finds himself alone at a table in a Blackfriars pub. He can tell it is wartime from the civil defence posters, the scattering of army uniforms, the blackout curtains. He knows it is Christmas from the string of paper decorations above the bar.

Crowley has turned back time. He has punched the air, brought his fist down with a flourish and transported himself into the past. He comes back to himself knowing this but little else.

His memory slowly locates itself. He is in this pub because it is the place Greta Kleinschmidt arranged to meet a contact. Her diary identified the contact as ‘AF’ and he wanted to know more. Are they a highly placed Nazi in the British establishment, or just another unlucky victim? He realises he won’t be staying to find out. Neither Greta nor AF have arrived and there is a message written on his hand. It is the message his future self sent back across time. The message is not permanent, it is already vanishing. It reads, _Save St Paul’s_.

What the Heaven is that about? Why has he come back hours, days or years to save a church?

And wouldn’t Hell be delighted if they found out?

It doesn’t matter, he doesn’t have a choice. He must put his trust in his future self and follow his own instructions. Fine. Big, famous cathedral in the middle of the Blitz. Save it from the Luftwaffe. Without Hell noticing. Fine. He slips out of the back door of the pub leaving Greta and the mysterious AF to their own devices.

A congregation from a Christmas Eve service is filing out of the cathedral when he arrives. They don’t linger but hurry for tram and bus before the blackout starts. Crowley walks around the perimeter of the sprawling building as it vanishes into twilight. He finds it as sturdy, whole and angel-blessed as it ever was.

Nearby there is a row of buildings destroyed in a raid. The last in the terrace survived but is damaged and covered with warning notices to keep people out. He pushes through the padlocked front door and climbs the stairs to the top floor. He cannot go inside the cathedral but from here he has a good view of it.

He sees the Fire Watch start to arrive. They are a group of above conscription age volunteers recruited to patrol St Paul’s each night and keep it safe. They are the cathedral’s first line of defence, armed with the most basic of firefighting equipment, fish paste sandwiches and now, apparently, Crowley.

His senses tingle and, to his surprise, Aziraphale appears. He is walking with two watch members. He wears the same uniform and is clearly known to them. As unlikely as it may be, he is a member of the watch. Crowley ducks out of sight as the angel senses him in turn and looks up.

That Aziraphale is protecting the cathedral the human way must mean he has instructions not to use his powers. Is Heaven in favour of the bombing, then? He wishes he could be more surprised.

He thinks about speaking to him after his shift ends. Catching up with him when he is safely clear of consecrated ground. He decides against it. _God – Satan - Someone_ knows, he _misses_ him. But how long would it be before they had another horrible Argument or, more likely, disappeared off somewhere and to get drunk together? He has a job to do, a job he gave himself, and he must not allow himself to be distracted from it.


	9. Sunday 29 December 1940

The Christmas ceasefire means nothing happens for the first three nights of his vigil. He passes them miserably with a replenishing bottle of whisky trying to keep warm from a fire in a waste paper bin. On the next two nights he perches on the roof to watch bombs fall on other parts of town. He starts to wonder how badly he mistimed his jump back and how long he will be waiting here.

The waiting has its compensations. Every evening he sees Aziraphale arriving for duty, carrying his flask of tea and a book for when it is quiet. Every evening he pauses to look up at Crowley’s building. He doesn’t come and find him and Crowley keeps himself hidden. He doesn’t know if it is Arrangement etiquette keeping them from acknowledging one another or pure stubbornness.

On Sunday night, when the darkness is blotted out and the sky turns to flame, GK Chesterton’s poetry haunts Crowley.

_A livid sky on London. And like the iron steeds that rear. A shock of engines halted. And I knew the end was near._

The Luftwaffe means to destroy the City tonight and St Paul’s is high on its list of targets. This is what he came back for; he knows the moment the sirens start.

He tries to send word to Aziraphale who is at his post inside the cathedral, but their telepathy is erratic at the best of times and non-existent since the Argument. He pulls a feather from his wing and sends it to him by miracle. He is not sure what he will make of it when it floats down into his hand.

Crowley is at the window when the first wave of aircraft arrives. He watches the planes fan out across the square mile of City. One swerves purposefully toward St Paul’s, then another and another. There is a flash of parachute flare and the cathedral is hit. Incendiaries rain down on it, thudding like hail stones on the dome. Then the high explosives come with booming fury.

He knows from Aziraphale’s _endless_ exposition back in the seventeenth century that the dome is built in three separate layers for stability. Beneath the lead surface there are complex constructions of brick vaulting and timber beams. If bombs penetrate and start fires half the problem will be getting to them. It will be old men balancing on narrow gantries with stirrup pumps attached to their backs.

He feels a shimmer of angelic power. Aziraphale hasn’t been able to resist. Good. If he is doing small miracles inside, Crowley can do small ones outside. Perhaps this will be enough to save the place without attracting Hell or Heaven’s attention.

He puts out fires as they start on dome and roof, diverts bombs to land harmlessly on the ground, knocks others loose after they have landed, sending them to where they can be more easily dealt with.

After a few hours of this his human body is tiring and it isn’t enough. The fires are spreading anyway, raging on every side of the huge building, stoked by the wind and fuelled by embers blown in from other infernos around the City.

With the relentlessness of a nightmare, the aircraft keep coming and the bombs keep cascading down. The fire brigade is there but not getting water to the flames. The water mains are probably damaged or the pressure too weak because of all the crews working in the area tonight. They try to pump water from the Thames but the tide is out and they just come up with mud.

Crowley paces and swears and comes to a decision. If he is going to do this, he is going to have to do it properly, regardless of consequences.

First, he cuts off the bombers. He makes it rain hard in France, turning their runways to mud and visibility to zero. Then he turns the Thames tide early, making the river levels rise so the Fire Brigade can work. He fills the cathedral’s own depleted water tanks and finally, ignoring the outraged objections of his inner demon, he focuses on putting out the bigger fires.

Raids normally go on throughout the night so when the all clear sounds at midnight a cheer goes up. 

“You’re welcome,” Crowley mutters because he knows that God, the useless article, is going to get the credit for this.

The fire brigade, the watch and Crowley continue to work until every fire is put out and every bomb made safe. St Paul’s stands. Damaged but not fatally, St Paul’s survives.

Exhausted, with powers drained, he drops to the floor beside his makeshift fireplace and falls asleep. He is woken briefly when the building he is in collapses.


	10. Monday 30 December 1940

Crowley is woken by shouting and a horrible smell. He is in his own bed and Hastur is standing over it yelling at him. _Fuck_.

“Your – Your Disgrace! What an unexpected –”

He tries to sit up but Hastur shoves him back, pressing his palm down on his chest.

“Don’t mean to disturb you, Crowley. But you failed.”

“I – no - what?”

“St Paul’s, last night. It was supposed to be destroyed.”

“It – it wasn’t?” 

“No! And since you were there, using enough power to destroy twenty cathedrals, I’m asking, what happened?”

“I don’t – I’m not sure.” The hand creeps up to his throat and squeezes. “I don’t know! I got knocked out.”

“You had orders, Crowley.”

“I didn’t!”

It comes out so spontaneously Hastur actually believes him. But, oh, _oh_. A distant memory surfaces of a scroll arriving when he was a bottle in on Christmas day. He had screwed it up and thrown it into the fire. It had slipped from his conscious mind entirely by the time he sobered up at sunset.

“What were you doing there, Crowley, you worm, if you didn’t get orders?”

“I’m a demon, I was stoking up the fires, enjoying the show.”

The hand tightens on his throat, “It didn’t occur to you, while you were having such a jolly time, to destroy the big, old church.”

“Souls only,” he gasps out. “You said souls only. Don’t get involved in the war.”

Hastur growls but Hell’s policy directives are non-negotiable. He grabs a fist full of Crowley’s hair and pulls while giving his throat another squeeze that stops the air to his lungs.

“I’m watching you, Crowley. Any more _lost_ orders, I’ll assume you’re rebelling.”

Hastur sinks back down to Hell leaving Crowley choking and gasping. It takes time to understand, through his anger and revulsion, that he has escaped punishment. He got away with it.

He won’t again. Hastur has a long memory. From now on, he must go exactly where he is sent, the moment he is sent there, and follow every order to the letter. He only hopes the poxy cathedral is worth it.

It is only after he has calmed himself down and properly taken in his surroundings, that he starts to wonder how he came to be here. How exactly did he get home from St Paul’s?

He remembers the floor giving way beneath him and the ceiling caving in. It happened so quickly he only had time to register bones shattering and something jagged plunging into his abdomen before he blacked out. Why didn’t he discorporate?

He sits up to investigate further. He knows he didn’t dream it because he is filthy with brick and plaster dust and his shirt is still wet with blood. His wounds are not serious, though; scratches, bruises, the odd ache. Aziraphale. Who else? The angel must have rescued him, healed the worst of his injuries and brought him home.

He runs fingers through his hair and finds it matted with dirt. The angel didn’t wash his hair then. Of course he didn’t. What an odd idea; why would he? But he has a peculiar, vivid memory. Which can’t be a memory. Which he never wants to let go of.

He waves a hand to get rid of his clothes, clean and heal himself. He dispels the stale air left by Hastur and falls back into a deep sleep.

He gets up more than a week later and returns to work at military intelligence. Judith spends the day spoiling Greta’s day. Greta spills ink on her papers and tea into her handbag. She misplaces files and gets lost in the building on her way to meetings. It is less fun than it ought to be. 

When Greta finally leaves the office, exhausted and irritated with herself, Judith transforms into Anthony and follows. Instead of taking a tram or taxi as she usually does, she walks to where she has a car parked. Crowley hastily summons the Bentley and follows. 

Greta drives directly to Soho, to Aziraphale’s bookshop, and parks outside.


	11. Saturday 11 January 1941

Crowley offers Aziraphale a lift back to the bookshop and they pick their way through the rubble of the bombed church to the road. The angel sits in the passenger seat clutching tightly to his bag of books.

“How did you know what was going on?” He asks and, before Crowley can get defensive, adds, “I’m not accusing you of anything.”

“I’ve been following the three of them; Kleinschmidt, Harmony and Glozier.”

“What for?”

“Their souls. It’s my job, remember.”

Sirens are blaring and raids are underway across the West End and City. People have taken to the shelters and there is nothing on the road but the Bentley.

“I feel rather foolish,” Aziraphale says gazing out of the window at the deserted street.

“Kleinschmidt’s convincing and you want to help.”

“Even so.”

“At least you’re trying to do something. Where’s your management in all this, where are the archangels? What are they doing? They must know what’s going on.”

Aziraphale shoots him a look and doesn’t bother to remind him he isn’t consulted on policy.

“You haven’t mentioned my car,” Crowley says to break the silence that follows. “My Bentley. Don’t you like it?”

“It’s very nice,” Aziraphale says.

“Nice?”

Aziraphale turns from the window to notice the interior, its walnut veneer and soft leather seats.

“It’s very sleek.”

“That’s better.”

“And stylish.”

“Exactly.”

“It inspires awe.”

“Yes, all right.”

“Are you planning on learning to drive it, at all?”

“Oi!”

“Oh, is it your feet? Are they terribly painful?”

“They’re perfectly all right - and there’s nothing wrong with my driving.”

“We’re supposed to go round corners by driving on the pavement, are we?”

“It’s good to see you again, Aziraphale.”

“I was – well I was – thinking the same thing. I know you haven’t been in the city of late. You’ve been working overseas?”

“I should have got in touch. For the, uh, Arrangement.”

“Or I,” Aziraphale murmurs.

“Won’t you come in?” Aziraphale asks as they draw up outside the bookshop. “A glass of wine. Stay until the raid finishes at least.”

He hesitates remembering Hastur’s threats. But he has received no orders and Hastur wouldn’t bother to seek him out again so soon unless he had discovered some fresh offence. And the shop is so blessed inviting.

“All right, a drink.”

They are in darkness at first as Aziraphale draws blackout curtains across but the smell is immediately familiar. The AZ Fell and Co scent of books and dust and buyer-deterrent. Of this morning’s tea, toast and marmalade.

Aziraphale lights oil lamps, suffusing the shop with soft light and it is as though he were here not last century, but last week. It is not nostalgia. He recognises even the new things; the miraculous additions to the architecture.

While Aziraphale goes down to the cellar to seek out a particular burgundy, Crowley explores a nook which should not be known to him. He’s been here before, he is sure of it, yet it did not exist in the nineteenth century. His hand goes to a book by F Scott Fitzgerald. He knows where to look for it on the shelf, remembers the glamorous couple portrayed on its dust jacket. He remembers making an unwise joke about the title which Aziraphale hadn’t minded. Is it possible he is remembering the past, but not this past? Is it possible he is accessing a different, erased version of history?

He follows the sound of wine being poured to the back room. He is glad to sit and take the pressure off his feet. Despite his claims, they are stinging with blisters from the consecrated ground of the church. Aziraphale watches his, not so casual, saunter and raises an eyebrow.

“They’re fine,” Crowley says.

“I’ve got some medical supplies, I could –.”

“I said they’re fine.”

An unexpected memory presents itself. Of a Crowley who allowed his feet to be cared for. It didn’t happen; he pushes it firmly away.

“A drink then.” Aziraphale raises his glass, “To St Paul’s Cathedral, if I may.”

He shrugs and raises his own, “The blessed place.” 

They tap their glasses together and taste. He has chosen a sixty-year-old bottle. A wine whose grapes hadn’t existed when Crowley was last here and is now vintage. A bottle he might, for all he knows, have drunk from once before.

“You were there all those nights waiting for that raid,” Aziraphale says. “Waiting to save a cathedral.”

“How do you know I wasn’t waiting to knock it down? I could have been bringing those bombers to it.”

“I know you weren’t. And anyway,” Aziraphale lowers his voice. “I felt the miracle when you travelled back in time.”

“You what?”

“It was extremely powerful. It would have rattled the windows in Heaven and Hell.” 

“Great, thanks. I needed something else to worry about.”

“It should be all right, I did some frivolous miracling to conceal it.”

Aziraphale glances nervously at a first edition First Folio on the desk, which looks suspiciously hot off the press. His misdirection must have worked because when Hastur visited he had no inkling.

“Angel,” he breathes. “You could be recalled.”

“I got an angry memo, that’s all. But Crowley, you _turned back time_ to save a cathedral. Why?”

“I don’t have any memory of the future when I go back. You know that.”

Although this rule seems not so hard and fast as it once was.

“Thank you then, whatever the reason. And thank you for this evening. It seems I owe you rather a lot.”

“Shut up. You also pulled me out from under a collapsed building, let’s call it quits.”

Aziraphale takes a sip of wine, “I always know when you’re around,” he says. “It’s like a signal, a little light flashing. You get it too, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“I suppose we misuse it, like everything else. It must be an extra sense we have; a ‘beware adversary’ warning, not ‘I wonder if he’s free for a drink’.”

To Crowley it signals, _I’m not alone on this planet_. He drinks to stop himself saying so.

“Suddenly the signal turned into an alarm and I knew something had happened. I could sense exactly where you were in that wreckage. I snapped myself in and, once I had healed your more serious wounds, both of us out. I’m sorry to have left you in such a state. It was awkward persuading an army chap to drive us to your flat and then it felt too risky to stay there.”

“That was your survival sense working too. If you had stayed, you would have run into Duke Hastur in a foul mood. Not that he has any other kind of mood.”

“Hastur? Are you in trouble?”

“No, but I’m on a warning.”

“What for? For the time thing?”

“For not destroying St Paul’s,” he pauses. “I was supposed to.”

“Oh, Crowley.”

“It’s all right. I need to be careful, that’s all.”

“I should say so. Oh, my goodness.”

“Honestly angel, it’s fine. We can still meet - I mean – Arrangement. But maybe not for a while.”

“We still have the Arrangement then?” Aziraphale asks. “I didn’t like to assume.”

Their connection is normally a source of anxiety to Aziraphale but he is looking hopeful.

“If you – if you want.”

“It’s been a long few years, Crowley.”

“It has. Let’s not do that again.”

“Let’s not.”

He offers Aziraphale his glass in a second toast. It’s something. Not enough, but something.

Crowley’s gaze wanders Aziraphale’s back room. It is the place he does most of his living. He keeps his eclectic collection of memorabilia here, his theatre programmes and piles of journals, his most precious books and his current reading. There is a sofa Crowley has proprietary feelings for nestled with other furniture that appears to have taken root and grown to comfortably fit the space. Just as the spiderwebs in the eves have, and the crops of mushrooms in the corners. 

This is Aziraphale’s burrow, his nest, although he calls it is his office. He keeps the shop ledgers which he stubbornly maintains here and sits at the desk to laboriously deal with correspondence which could be answered with a wave of his hand. Today the desk hosts a tea cosy covering a black-wired something that is not a teapot. A telephone? Impossible.

There is an eerie familiarity about it all, but memories slide away as he tries to catch hold of them.

His flask is there too; the one Crowley has seen him take into St Paul’s, placed carefully at the centre of the blotter. Crowley can sense a recent blessing emanating from it, which probably means Aziraphale has expended one too many miracles on improving the quality of his tea rations.

Aziraphale has fallen silent. He is staring down at his hand. Crowley stares at it too. He is struck by another memory, which is not a memory, of waking hungover after a night spent on this sofa. Of Aziraphale’s hand reaching out. Of a hesitant brush of fingers into sleep-spiked hair. This Aziraphale, here in the flesh, plunges his hand into his jacket pocket as if to restrain it.

The air raid sirens, by now sounding the all clear, fall silent. It is a silence holding its breath; a silence anticipating a left or right turn on the road to the future.

Aziraphale pours them each a second glass, “When you came to the cathedral so soon after turning back time, I worried you were hatching a plan to obtain holy water because you were in trouble.”

“I can’t get within fifty feet of the place, angel.”

“I understand now it wasn’t your intention.”

“But I’m still in the market,” he says. “If you’re interested.”

Aziraphale glances at the flask taking oddly centre stage on his desk. A brief battle is fought across his expressive features.

“I can’t Crowley, I can’t. I can’t risk you hurting yourself.”

Crowley doesn’t reply; he has no wish to replay this argument. And other memories that aren’t memories are engendered by Aziraphale’s impassioned statement. They refuse to take shape but in them Aziraphale is in his flat and this flask is on the kitchen table. The images shift and change and it is his _bedroom_ amid the thunder and lightning of an air raid. And his bathroom; his body stinging with holy wounds and Aziraphale’s hands, without hesitation now, moving gently in his hair.

His lungs abandon the business of breathing to focus on the thumping of his heart.

What did he give up? To come back in time and save St Paul’s Cathedral? What did they both give up?

Aziraphale is looking wildly at him. Crowley is glad to be behind dark glasses because if Aziraphale’s eyes have become a storm at sea, Hell knows what his might reveal.

Hastur’s vile features are never far from his imagination either. A reminder that he is not free, that he is closely supervised and not trusted. This is not the time. This is _not_ the time.

For a moment, he wonders. Can he travel back again, can he raise a dramatic hand and make it a different time? He dismisses the thought. He has saved St Paul’s which was what the future asked of him. All else is unknown. Here, where a world war hangs in the balance, there is too much at stake. He doesn’t know what world he destroyed; he doesn’t know how the world he created is different. He trusts his shadow self from another history and looks to their safety in the reality they now occupy.

He knocks back his drink and gets to his feet, “That was the all clear.”

“Stay,” Aziraphale says. “I mean. Are you sure you won’t stay a little longer?”

“I don’t think so. Another time.”

“Yes of course, another time.”

Crowley drives slowly through the blacked-out darkness. There are more people about now, emerging from shelters. Despite the hour a Hungarian restaurant resumes service after hosting its customers in the basement for the raid. Dance music bleeds from a boarded-up bar. The dawn is still hours away but Soho streets are rarely empty for long. 

From the air comes something bright, something that catches his eye like a falling incendiary, but silent and gentle and light enough to drift on currents of air. He opens the window a crack and, unerringly, it finds him. It lands in his hand; a feather from an angel’s wing. He slips it into his breast pocket and keeps on driving.

End

September 2020

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the GK Chesterton poem, The Old Song that Crowley quotes in the book.


End file.
